‘I celebrate easy, simple (and often bad) sailing’ – Monty Halls

New owner Monty Halls tests his sailing skills with his family aboard their Colvic 34 ketch, Sobek. A recently qualified Day Skipper, Monty faces a few unexpected challenges...

There are many folk who have stepped onto Sobek and made an immediate (although entirely understandable) mistake. They have assumed that I know what I’m doing. It’s not a long-lasting sensation, but in the early stages, it can be a bit discombobulating for all concerned.

But this certainly couldn’t be said of my best mate, a dear old mucker of nearly 40 years. He’s seen it all, every level of muppetry imaginable, and always has the air of a spooked animal whenever I invite him to try something where I’m in charge. This changes to a bovine acceptance of imminent death once we’re underway, and then sheer, unadulterated, unfettered joy when I give up and turn for home.

And so as he stepped aboard Sobek, Bodders glanced with more than casual interest at the life raft, the flares, and then – as we chatted in the saloon – side-eyed the Mayday card propped up by the VHF. This is all fair enough, and never annoys me, as I have plenty of ammunition of my own.

Bodders has a colossal intellect, truly gigantic, all contained in a brain that I’m convinced goes all the way to the top of his massive thatch of hair. But this brain is so taken up with complex economics, deep thinking, meta- analysis, and dazzling wit, that there’s absolutely no room for the bit that remembers how to tie knots. Or steer.

I’ve been teaching Bodders a clove hitch for four decades now, and – fair play to him – he’ll always give it a crack, but invariably ends up with his thumb secured firmly to the rail and the fender rolling at his feet.

A few weeks ago, we set out, this unlikely duo, to do a bit of ‘pointlessly sailing in triangles’ off Slapton. I pretended it was a chance to refine some skills and test some kit, but actually it was an excuse to boss him around for a bit (which he hates) and display my newfound knowledge (which he finds tedious).

We chugged out past the twin guillotines of the lower ferry on the Dart, and into a truly glorious day for a sail – low chop, scudding clouds, a gathering breeze, and an empty sea. This was going to be great, particularly as he was now stuck on board, literally a captive audience.

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‘And this is called the topping lift, Bodders; an important bit of kit, let me tell you.’

‘Oh, right, jolly good.’

‘But this one here, this is the kicking strap. Can you see how I’m loosening it? Can you? You’re not looking. Here. Right here.’

‘Hmmm. Right, interesting.’

He was just hitting the resentful/very bored stage of proceedings, when we decided to do our first tack. I liken my sailing skills to my skiing skills – when I’m on the nursery slopes, I can feel people looking at me and thinking, ‘This boy can really ski.’ And then when I hit a mogul field, this immediately changes to, ‘Ah, no, hang on. He’s hopelessly crap.’

Same with sailing. When cruising in a straight line, I’m Robin Knox-Johnston. When doing anything technical, I’m Boris Johnson. And so it proved.

I took charge, barking instructions from the helm as Bodders crouched like a panther by the winch. The problem was I undercooked the turn, and the jib got stuck halfway, so we sort of hove to. So I put more rudder on, which meant that – with a well-timed gust – we kind of corkscrewed on the spot, a festival of flapping sails and flailing lines. In terms of going from six knots to a dead stop, it was a masterclass.

‘That was textbook!’ I shouted triumphantly at him (I mean, he doesn’t know either way).

‘Ah, jolly good!’ he said approvingly.

We did a few more, and were laughing so hard by the end that we had to stop. We then exchanged a moment of precise, mutual understanding, a near-telepathic communication of what should happen next. And so half an hour later we were puttering back past the castle, and onto our mooring.

Here, the remainder of the evening was spent in a most satisfactory manner drinking wine and telling the same stories we’d been telling each other since 1988.

Sailing comes in many forms. I’d suggest that bad sailing is one of them, and is certainly worthy of its place in the pantheon.

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